


when he found what he had done

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Clips and Clamps, F/M, Face Slapping, Female Tony Stark, M/M, Multi, Penis Plug, Polyamory, Punishment, Reference to Bucky/Nat, Slapping, Steve Rogers Has Issues, WinterIron overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: Sometimes, Steve does some very brave, very stupid things.Sometimes, Bucky punishes him for that.





	when he found what he had done

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for my MCU Kink Bingo square G4: "Slapping". It certainly has that! The bad BDSM etiquette I tagged for is explained in the author's note at the end, for those who would like to know but prefer to avoid spoilers. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed, so if you see something, please say something!

“James.”

Natasha was always very careful to check in with him, even when she didn’t have to be.  “It’s fine,” he said, stepping off the QuinJet.  “I’ll be fine.”

He always was.

“You always are,” she agreed, eerily in step with his thoughts.  She still cast her gaze deliberately over the empty hangar, though.  “I think he’s home.”

“I’m sure he is.” It came out too hastily, especially considering who he was talking to.  His phone burned a hole in his pocket.  “I’ll be fine, Natalia.”

“You always are,” she repeated, adding, “no matter how bad it was this time.”  She touched his arm lightly and moved off, graciously giving him space for his heart to pound out of his chest.

But fuck, that was the whole goddamn problem, wasn’t it?  

Bucky had been pretty happy about joining the Avengers, for the most part.  It was penance, and it was _useful,_ and since Steve had moved on without him—he had thought—shacking up with the Stark chick in this new century, it gave Bucky a way to pay back all the time and effort Steve—and Natalia, and the other Avengers—had spent rescuing him from HYDRA.  

Bucky was particularly grateful for the missions Stark gave him, which were things like rescuing uncovered SI weapons from AIM bunkers.  Missions like the one he had just come in from.  He and Stark had a dubious sort of dance they did, where they circled around each other and didn’t engage, because Bucky had killed Stark’s parents and Stark had tried to kill Bucky, and also Stark was fucking the love of Bucky’s life, and that was—that was okay, Bucky repeated to himself, that was the way it worked: you lose somebody, you grieve, you move on.  Bucky had done it, too, with Natalia.  

Sometimes still did it with Natalia.

But then, this time, the Rock Hard Jaw of Justice had squared up, and Steve had refused to let go.  Of either of them, Bucky _or_ Stark.  So now Bucky and Stark were dancing a little closer to each other, but they still weren’t reaching out to touch.

Closer and closer, though.  Bucky ran a finger unobtrusively over the screen of his phone, where a video file had popped up fifteen minutes before Natalia landed the jet in an empty hanger.  Bucky had watched the video—the audio filtered automatically through his earpiece—and then, as his blood had boiled, the file had closed itself out and been replaced with a live feed, instead.

Closer and closer.  They’d have to give in and dance together, sooner or later.  Steve was going to be _ecstatic._

Not tonight, though.  Bucky took his time showering off the grit of the mission—that video feed was monitored by the Jorge, the AI Stark had made specifically for that purpose, and Bucky had no doubt that Stark was watching it live, too, probably from about ten feet away from the camera, if on the other side a wall with no door.  Stark had repulsors; therefore, all walls had doors.  It was just some walls didn’t know it yet.  But Stark, while cheeky, was nowhere near reckless enough to do something like this and walk away, and that meant that monitoring—albeit discrete monitoring—was in place.  

Which meant Bucky could take an extra three minutes cleaning his asshole.

By the time he got out of the shower, blow-dried, brushed, and shaved, there was a warm set of comfortable house clothes sitting on the cart at the end of the locker room.  Bucky casually tossed them on, then snagged his phone from the pile of his dirty uniform—the live feed was still going—and made his way down the hallway to the bedroom he sometimes shared with Steve.

He didn’t knock.  

* * *

This was the video _file_ Stark had sent him: the Iron Maiden’s dash cam, basically.  Steve—Cap—diving into a building, a _clearly collapsing_ building, seriously, the _five year olds_ were running away from it because _even they_ knew it was a collapsing building, but Steve on the comms was saying, “No, I can get it, I’ll just go up the elevator shaft—” and he _had_ gotten the intel, and it was important intel, but then the entire north face of the building had toppled, and if Iron Maiden hadn’t been there to lift it back up again Steve would _still_ be trapped in a closet with several tons of building on top of him holding the door shut, and while Bucky could maybe appreciate the metaphor he could not, at all, appreciate the reality.

Bucky queued up that video, now.  He walked carefully into the room, stopping in front of Steve, turned the phone sideways until the video was fullscreen, then held it close to Steve’s head so Steve could hear it.

Just in case he had any doubts about why Bucky was maybe a little angry, right now.

* * *

When Bucky entered the room, here was what he saw: Steve.  First and foremost and always, he saw Steve.

Here was how Steve was positioned: He was kneeling, arms behind his back.  He was shirtless, and if one looked carefully around the breadth of his shoulders, one could resolve the darkness around Steve’s wrists into Steve’s own uniform jacket and undershirt, pulled down and twisted around themselves to bind him.  It was a simple thing, and clever: if anything went wrong, Steve could be twisting out of it in a second, but if he didn’t think and just _pulled,_ the blue para-aramid material would hold against even his strength for hours.  

As a bonus, it also left Steve’s chest bare.

Steve’s pants were open, and his dick was out; the pants themselves were pulled down his hips, bunching around his thighs, but no further down than that.  His feet were bare, his boots and socks lined up neatly by the door.  He had obviously not been given a chance to shower—there was still dirt and grit on his clothes—but he had, equally obviously, been wiped off, and his dick and hips were so clean they were practically shiny.  In fact...

Bucky tipped his head down on his neck, looking closer, and realized that Steve’s inner thighs _were_ shiny, slick with lube.  His heart thumped excitedly, because he knew what that meant: that meant there was a plug in Steve’s ass, and if he wanted to, he could just pull that out and slide right in, no warmup required.  

He licked his lips, smiling grimly.

The plug wasn’t the only prop adorning Steve’s body.  The most intimate was the _other_ plug; Bucky could see the ball-bearing head in some red metal that matched the ring at the base of Steve’s cock.  The penis plug had a hole in it, and precome was leaking steadily through it, glistening as it dripped to the floor in a spider-silk thread.  

Steve’s nipples were clamped, but the chain swinging slowly between them had a paper sign reading “Pull me! :)” on it, so Bucky guessed that was just to keep the pressure on until he got here.  Steve’s chest, arms, and inner thighs were decorated with red metal clothespins, and Steve’s thighs were spread enough to keep them from touching—a positioning, Bucky knew, which had to be deliberate.  He was blindfolded, which had to be more for his own benefit than for Bucky’s or Stark’s—Steve would be able to tell which of the was in the room with him instantly, eyes or no eyes, so that had to be intended to keep him focused, not to keep him confused.  

His tongue hung out between his lips, a final wide, red clip attached to the end of it.  It was—Bucky knew the AI, Jorge, would be keeping an eye on it, but he had to check, too—Steve’s tongue was deeply purple where it clamped down, but not blue; it had to hurt like a bitch, but it wasn’t doing any permanent damage.

Stark had left hot rod red lipstick prints all over Steve’s face, neck, and chest, and a purple hickey fading by Steve’s right nipple must have been just _impressively_ bad before she left him alone, because it was still there half an hour later when Bucky walked in.  

Bucky laughed harshly.

“Well,” he said, dropping to one knee and staring at Steve’s blindfolded face, “I’ll say this for her, she sure as hell knows how to warm up a room.”

* * *

When the video stopped playing, Steve’s head tilted back on his neck.   _Oh, shit,_ Bucky could imagine him saying, _she told you about that?_ Resignation, frustration, but not guilt, and oh, Bucky had _every intention_ of taking _that_ out of his hide.  

“Kneel up,” he ordered, setting the phone screen aside.  He remembered that, in addition to Jorge, Tasha Stark was _also_ going to be watching this video feed, and had a moment of vacillation where he went back and forth over it before he decided to strip his shirt off.   _He_ didn’t care for his scars, but Tasha was _obsessed_ with watching that damn arm, and since she had just given Bucky a _very nice present,_ shirt off it was.  

He used the arm to cup Steve’s chin, watching him carefully.  Steve had risen to his knees obediently, although his legs were still spread.  His chest was glistening with sweat—not surprising, all those clamps must be painful—and the clip attached to his tongue was trembling in the air, transmitting the fine movements of Steve’s trembles for Bucky to see clearly.  Or for anyone else watching, Bucky reminded himself; they could see, too.  

“Hmm,” Bucky said.  “Safeword?”

Steve didn’t answer; it was Jorge’s voice, soothing and very faintly Hispanic, which answered.  “Steve has a clicker grasped in his right hand.  If he uses it or drops it, I’ll let you know.”  

That meant no yellow, but that was alright.  This kind of game, Steve never used yellow; there was no room for it.

Bucky reached forward with the flesh hand and ripped off the chain that said, “Pull me! :)”.  Well, after all, Stark had been very clear about the instructions!

Steve shouted and pushed forward, trying to follow the sting, but he couldn’t, of course; Bucky had him by the throat, thumb and fingers pressing in on either side of his jaw.  Bucky curled the flesh fingers into Steve’s hair and pulled—not to move his head around, just to be cruel; he still had Steve squarely held with the other hand.  Steve cried out again, and flinched away, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, his eyes prickling with frustration, “am not happy, Steve.”

Steve was breathing harshly, the tongue clip flailing wildly as Steve tried to get it under control.  “Hnn,” he said, almost a whine, but Bucky was having none of it.  

“You _know,”_ he snarled.  “You _know_ how we feel about this shit.  You know it scares the _fuck_ out of us, and you _do it anyway,_ and—I don’t expect you to _change,_ Rogers.”  He took his hand out of Steve’s hair and gave a short toss with his silver hand to rock Steve back a bit, although Steve came right back to the position Bucky had told him to take a second later.  Between them, Steve’s cock pushed another pulse of precome through the plug and it drooled into a silver-dollar puddle on the floor.  “I don’t expect _you,_ of all people, to change.  But you will _damned well_ keep letting us get even.”

Bucky stopped talking and just looked, looked at how wrecked Steve had been before he had even gotten here.   Stark must have had a whale of a good time, winding him up; she always did like that, Bucky had noticed, liked the manipulation of it, getting Steve to dance and plead for her.  And then she had left him there, carefully monitored but—the emotional punch of it would always be terrifying—alone, for an unknown length of time, until he was small and aching and desperate for any touch—and then Bucky had come in.  

“Nod your head if you consent,” Bucky ordered.

The wide red clip flailed and jerked as Steve nodded, immediately.  He hesitated, then added, “‘Airh,” the word mangled badly by the circumstances but still clear: _Fair,_ he had said.   _Even trade._

“Glad you agree, pal.”

Bucky shifted his stance, squaring up.  He positioned Steve’s face with his metal hand—he remembered the video feed, and made sure the cameras would get a good view—and then let the mechanical arm fall away.  He reached forward and toyed with one of Steve’s nipples—they were hard and deeply red, probably stinging at the least little touch by now, tiny nipples in wide golden areolas and Bucky _loved them._ He smirked when Steve whimpered and flinched, but Steve didn’t try to move away from his fingers, even when Bucky used the knife callouses on him.

A drop of drool dripped down the red tongue clip and Bucky raised his hand to catch it, smearing it along Steve’s jaw.  Steve squared his shoulders and whined, inquisitive, blind but not out of it.

Bingo.  

Bucky grinned, sharp, the way he used to in back alleys and bars, looking directly into the camera and blowing a kiss before raising his hand...

The first blow came exactly across Steve’s cheek, the bones sharp beneath him, and Steve’s head snapped to the side.  It was an open-handed slap—all of them would be—but it still hurt, and the _sound_ it made...!  There was nothing like that, not in the whole world.  Nothing like the sound of abuse rained down on someone you love, _because_ you love them, and because they love you, and because they not only _let_ you, they _wanted_ you to.  And Steve did: _Only fair,_ he had said, and Steve _loved_ being fair. Steve would sleep better tonight than he had in a week, and better by far than the times he had pulled stunts like the one today and they _hadn’t_ done anything.  Bucky knew this, had known it for months, but it always caught him under his guts, lifting like a hook, like the first big hill on a roller coaster, and that was all it took before he was flying.

Bucky waited until Steve had brought his face back around, then slapped him again.  The blindfold twisted, just slightly, under the blow; Bucky was going to have to take that off before the end of this.  In the meantime, though, he dropped his metal hand to one of the clamps on Steve’s arm, pinching the mouth of it tightly between two fingers, squeezing the trapped flesh cruelly.  Steve choked on his breath and jerked his head back, but he wasn’t going anywhere in this position, and as soon as he brought his face around again, Bucky slapped him a third time.

He got into a rhythm, alternating slaps with torture to Steve’s arms, legs, nipples, abs...  Between the clips, clamps, and plugs, Bucky had more than enough material to work with, able to make Steve twitch and buck underneath him with relatively small touches.  Steve snarled and stiffened again and again under Bucky’s abuse, but the clicker still clasped in Steve’s hand remained silent, and Steve’s cock was rock hard and drooling onto the floor.  

At first, all the slaps were to Steve’s left side, from Bucky’s more gentle right hand.  Steve’s cheek turned red, and then faintly yellow beneath it, his body healing the bruising before the bruising could even show.  Bucky slapped him a tenth, eleventh, fifteenth time, but Steve just kept pushing his face out, holding his chin up, _begging_ for it even though that damned red clip was turning his tongue a deeper and deeper purple.  

The sixteenth time, Bucky used the other hand, and it hit a lot harder: Steve toppled sideways, then immediately rolled onto his back, shouting wordlessly.  Bucky froze—what if Steve were really hurt?—but after a second, he realized that Steve’s shout had been less from pain, and more because of arousal: his dick was twitching, his chest heaving frantically, and as Bucky watched, Steve’s abs clenched and re-clenched, trying desperately to hold back an orgasm.  

Bucky leaned over and pulled Steve’s uniform pants the rest of the way off with one long, smooth tug.  He stepped in, kicking Steve’s legs apart; Steve’s whimpers rose in pitch, not quite believing that Bucky would be nice enough to let him come, but hoping anyway.  

He was about to be _really_ disappointed.

Bucky reached down and, without hesitation, slapped Steve’s balls with his flesh hand.  Steve shouted, curling up against the pain, but with his arms behind his back there was little he could do to stop him, so Bucky followed it up by going for the obvious target: Steve’s nipples were dark with blood, hard enough to cut glass, and they were _right there;_ how was he supposed to resist?  He flicked them with his middle finger first, then rubbed hard enough to make Steve hiss before ripping the last of the clips off of Steve’s inner thighs and slapping his balls again.  Steve was shouting and resisting, now, trying to close his legs, but he couldn’t because Bucky had stepped between them, and because Steve wasn’t willing to _actually_ fight back against him, even though he _had_ to be in agony.

Bucky pulled Steve up, not gently, by his hair, shoving him back onto his position atop the pillow again.  Steve struggled, but it was aimless, struggle for the sake of it and not an actual attempt to escape; Bucky could tell, because there was no _direction_ to it.  Steve wasn’t trying to get back, or off the pillow, or even attack, he was just trying to _not do_ what Bucky was forcing him to.  Bucky put up with it for about thirty seconds, then barked out, _“Color,”_ and watched Steve go still.  

For a second, Steve just breathed, chest heaving and glistening with sweat.  His skin was flushed, a lovely pink all down his shoulders, chest, and arms; his lips were deeply red against his skin, Stark’s matching lip-prints decorating him like a flowers on a wallpaper.  The remaining clips, on his chest and upper arms, bobbled with his heaving gasps.  Bucky imagined that, behind the blindfold, Steve’s eyes were wide and dark, dilated so far that the blue all but disappeared.  

Beautiful.  He really was.  

Always had been.

“Color,” Bucky repeated, and if he had to ask a third time that was an automatic red.  But no—behind Steve’s back, Bucky could see Steve’s hand clench, making sure he hadn’t dropped the clicker.  A single thumb stuck out of his tightly-clenched fist, and Jorge translated, “Green,” unnecessarily for him.

Bucky smiled—not nicely—and hit Steve with his metal hand again.  He hit with a backhand this time, and Steve toppled right off his cushion—to the left, this time.  He rolled to his knees under his own power before Bucky could even approach him, then turned his head back and forth as if looking around—which he couldn’t be, of course, because of the blindfold, but it probably helped him get his bearings.  The clip on his tongue flapped with the movement, and Bucky didn’t even try to hide the smile; after all, _Steve_ couldn’t see it.  

“Trying to get back on the pillow, Stevie?”  

Steve turned his head towards Bucky’s voice, but of course he couldn’t very well answer.  Instead, he straightened his posture, sticking out his chest and spreading his knees on the hardwood floor—a perfect imitation of his earlier posture, except without the cushion.  A silent request that Bucky continue.  

God, but Bucky did love this crazy son of a bitch.

He slapped Steve with the front on the metal hand again, and fairly hard, too—the skin of his cheek split under the blow, but not badly and Bucky knew it would be healed again by morning.  Not, Bucky knew, enough for Steve to call this off.  Steve rocked sideways, unable to find purchase in the awkward position, and tumbled over enough that his arm came down on the pillow.  He interpreted the blow correctly as the assist it was, and scrambled upright again, this time properly positioned.  

Bucky stepped back and made sure that the camera got a good shot of Steve, his balls drawn up tight and purple, his dick leaking through the plug, blind and bound and with his tongue hanging out, drool dripping from his lips, but sitting up straight and eager, nevertheless.  

Bucky curled his metal hand around Steve’s neck.  He didn’t squeeze—breathplay was something he had to be in a very specific mood for, and these days he rarely was—but he did push Steve’s chin up even farther with his thumb.  He smiled for the camera and slapped Steve one last time, his hand holding Steve in place for the blow.  The crack of it echoed in the empty room.

Bucky tossed Steve away, lightly—not enough to make him fall—then took a deliberate step back before moving around Steve in a silent circle.  Odds were, Steve would still know where he was, but Bucky could be _very_ quiet, especially in bare feet: Steve was going to have to work for it.

He considered stopping halfway around, but the camera angle decided him, and he completed his path back where he had started.  He stepped close again, his hands firm but not kind on Steve as he ripped off the rest of the clips and then spun him around, the cushion turning like a record-player beneath Steve until Steve’s back was to Bucky’s front.  Bucky pushed, firmly, while holding onto Steve’s bound arms, and Steve got the message, folding forward at the waist until his ass was in the air, his chest and bruised cheek pressed into the floor.  

The plug, Bucky discovered, was red.  And gold.  

Of course it was.  

Rolling his eyes at Stark’s... _Stark-ness,_ Bucky loosened the ties of his pants and shucked them off.  He wasn’t wearing underwear beneath them—he rarely did around the house, a habit that drove Natalia _nuts—_ and it felt a little too good to take his cock in hand, jacking himself once, twice, rubbing the foreskin around the shaft.  Steve’s breathing had quickened, huffing out against the floor.  Excitement; Steve knew what was about to happen.

Bucky got to his knees and pulled out the plug slowly, just to watch Steve struggle not to shift his hips.  Then he slid it back in again, just as slowly.  “If you come,” he warned Steve, “you will not be happy with what happens.  You will not like that _at all._ Stevie, you hear me?”

The plug was thick, tugging at Steve’s rim as it came out.  Steve choked back a small moan nodded, wincing as the tongue clip swung wildly with the motion. 

Then, visibly, Steve hesitated.  

“Do you need help?” Bucky asked.  

Obviously reluctant, Steve nodded against the floor.  Bucky nodded back, even though Steve couldn’t see him.  

“Good job asking,” he said, “I know you don’t like doing that.”  

Steve squirmed unhappily—he never did like praise during this, not from Bucky, anyway—and then _really_ squirmed as Bucky smacked his balls again.  He shouted and twisted, and Bucky grabbed him by the jacket still pinning his arms using the metal hand.  “No,” Bucky scolded roughly, then ball-tapped him again.

When Steve tried again to squirm away, Bucky went to town, spanking and slapping and frankly abusing Steve’s ass.  It wasn’t a large ass; it didn’t take long for Bucky’s blows to overlap themselves, his flesh hand smacking into the red prints already rising on Steve’s fair skin.  After a moment, Steve went still, accepting the spanking with a screwed up face which probably meant the blindfold was hiding tears.  Bucky knew him, though, knew how this went, especially when Steve had a plug in him—the pleasure would offset the pain, for Steve, every time—and sure enough, and after a minute of gasping and crying, Steve started to struggle again.  Bucky just held on and slapped him harder, swapping in swats to Steve’s balls whenever it looked like he might lose his grip, and hitting lower down, on the more sensitive backs of Steve’s thighs, rather than his ass.  

This time, when Steve went still, it was true passivity.  It took _forever_ to get Steve to go down—Bucky wasn’t above wondering if that was why Stark had left this part to him—but once he did, he was _down._ Bucky let his hand slow, turning the swats into gentle caresses, rubbing at the brilliant red handprints.  

“Good boy,” he said.  “Good boy, Steve.  You’re doing great.  Just take it, now...”  

He eased the plug out and tossed it away; it rolled across the wooden floor, leaving a snail trail of slick behind it.  Bucky didn’t bother with fingers, since Steve was already loose—especially given the size of the plug, _good grief, Stark—_ but just eased his cockhead up against Steve’s entrance and pushed, sliding all the way in with one stroke, burying himself and pressing against the abused skin of Steve’s ass.  Steve moaned at the contact, but didn’t move, lying limply beneath him.  

“Well, would you look at that,” Bucky marveled.  “Finally got you beat down, huh?”  

Steve waggled the fingers of one hand at him, a friendly, submissive gesture that almost made Bucky laugh, but otherwise remained still.  Bucky put a hand on Steve’s back and rubbed, a very _good boy_ sort of touch, before starting to pull back out again.  

He leaned back a little, too; had to make sure the camera had a good shot, after all.

He set a good pace, brisk but not furious.  The snapping of his hips was clearly jostling Steve, little jerks of movement transmitting through his whole body, but Steve just took it, moaning non-stop in a mix of pleasure and pain, his cock drooling heavily through the plug.  Bucky drove harder, just how he wanted to, not worried about Steve for a second—Steve could take it, that was what this was about, that was _fair—_ and before long, he was riding Steve hard, using a grip on Steve’s jacket to pull Steve back onto his cock.

When he came, he hauled Steve upright, pressing his back against his chest, and bit hard on his trapezius, that thick, diamond-shaped muscle that ran from the back of Steve’s neck to his shoulder blade.  Steve screamed Bucky’s name as Bucky came, and when he had stilled, Bucky grinned ferally, licking the sluggishly bleeding bite mark, making Steve twitch and shudder in his arms.

* * *

It took a while for him to feel like moving, but when he did, Bucky stood up and lifted Steve with him.  They were both buck naked and covered in dribbles of fluid—Steve’s fluids, most—but Bucky wasn’t too worried about that.

“Jorge,” he ordered, “clear the hallway.  Where are we going?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.”  It took exactly sixty seconds, one of the few tells that Jorge was an AI.  “Okay, hallway’s clear.  Second door down, there’s another long hallway.  Take that.”  

The long hallway through the second door had about fifty different exits off of it, but Jorge directed Bucky to one of the first, which turned out to be a stairwell.  If Bucky’s mental map was right, it put them out in a sort of library situated pretty much directly over Bucky’s room, which, score one for Bucky’s estimation of where Stark would be.

She was waiting for them in lingerie, a teddy and a filmy robe, both in red, neither doing anything to disguise the curves of her breasts or the dark racing stripe above her snatch.  She was lounging on a chaise longue, one knee pulled up provocatively, and when Bucky carried Steve in—Steve was curled up in his arms like a cat—she held open her arms with a vicious, delighted smile.  

Bucky sent her back a flat look in return, but dumped Steve down into her arms.  It _was_ her turn again, after all.

Almost, anyway.

Steve started to turn into her, nuzzling into her softness for the aftercare he did, admittedly, need, but Bucky stopped him before he could go too far with a hand on his shoulder.  Steve looked up, blinking confusedly, and Bucky snagged his face with the metal hand again.  He leaned forward and ripped the clip off of Steve’s tongue, ignoring Steve’s pained shout, and kissed him deeply, aggressively, taking and taking and _taking,_ twining his own tongue around Steve’s until Steve’s whimpers developed into a stream of constant, low moans.  Steve sucked back when Bucky gave him his tongue, moved hungrily under Bucky’s hands, and even though the kiss _had_ to be agonizing, he chased Bucky’s mouth when Bucky pulled away.

Bucky smiled crookedly, raising his thumb to rub at Steve’s spit-shiny and pink lower lip.  Steve turned his head instead and nuzzled affectionately into Bucky’s hand, and behind Steve, Stark caught her breath sharply.

Bucky met her eyes and quirked an eyebrow at her, then rubbed his hands down Steve’s arms, from shoulders to biceps, forearms to wrists.  He pulled both of Steve’s hands towards him, kissed the back of each fist lightly, then released them and stood, tossing off a lazy salute.  He wasn’t too picky about which of them he aimed it at.

As he walked towards the door, he heard the soft, almost-inaudible sound of the clicker dropping from Steve’s hand onto carpet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bad BDSM etiquette: **Never, ever leave a partner tied up and alone.** Here, Steve seems to have been tied up and left alone; in fact, he could escape his bonds easily, there is an AI in the room, and he is also being monitored remotely; however, that's fantasy, and in reality it would be a very poor idea to use the same scenario. Bucky also does more damage to Steve than most practitioners of BDSM would be comfortable; he is willing to do this because of Steve's healing factor, and he is certain, rather than speculating, as to the long-term effects (none) of the damage. But it's generally a bad idea to hit someone hard enough to break skin, or to bite hard enough to break skin, and both happen here.


End file.
